Empty Hand Revolution

Delhi Fight Club

Cosmo stepped off the bus alone. He knew better than to bring his cousin, Kachui, to an event like this. And Pemi would have wanted to get in the ring, or worse, start a fight with someone in the audience. Cosmo waited for the bus to slog out of sight along the muddy road before striding toward a barn visible beyond a farmhouse and a row of palm trees.

Whatever happened in these fights, he wanted to disguise his participation from his family and classmates. Today he was supposed to be on a spiritual retreat in the Central Ridge Forest near downtown New Delhi. The bus he’d taken had passed right by it.

If he received any visible cuts or bruises during the fight, well, he’d have to improvise his story. But the idea that Cosmo Zimik could get into a fight on a spiritual retreat wouldn’t seem completely out of the ordinary.

Cosmo stopped short of the barn to consider whether this truth constituted an irreconcilable irony. Should he be upset with himself? Was there something wrong with being an angry Christian who spent so much time fighting? He knew what his father would say.

“Mr. Zimik.”

Cosmo recognized the voice from the cricket field.

The man who had invited him poked his head out from behind a large wooden door on tracks. “Don’t stand around in the mud looking stupid. There’s someone you need to meet.”

“Right.” Cosmo hurried inside the shadowy barn. The expected odors of manure and hay had been masked by cigarette smoke and disinfectant.

With no further greeting, the man led Cosmo behind some makeshift stands. Seconds later, they entered a side room that looked like it had once stored grain. The cement floor had cracked and worn over the course of several decades, aging the barn as pre-independence, perhaps even World War I.

A white man sat behind a desk in the middle of the room, his head buried in a ledger book. The only light came from a lamp on his desk. The lamp’s cracked and stained shade rested crookedly. The lack of ventilation lent the room an oppressive air.

The man who’d invited Cosmo stood at attention beside the desk. No one spoke.

Cosmo waited patiently to be introduced, or inspected, or whatever the protocol in such circumstances called for. He hadn’t come here by accident, so as far as he was concerned all of this must be normal for a fighter’s first event.

More than a minute later, the man behind the desk showed signs of life by rubbing the back of his neck. After another pause, he raised his head. Removing his glasses, he placed them on the desk and stared at his man. “Get on with it. Is this the college student from the infernal tribal area?” The boss spoke with an English accent.

The man who had invited Cosmo cleared his throat. “Yes. This is Cosmo Zimik, from Manipur.”

“Well la di da, a first name and a last. Aren’t we formal, Mr. Bashir Khan. And the kid’s presence in my barn somehow justifies this interruption?”

Khan didn’t blink. “I wanted you to meet the best fighter of today’s event before your colleagues arrived.”

“Well crap in my sandals. You don’t say?”

Even in the dim lighting, Cosmo could see the boss roll his eyes. Cosmo hadn’t expected a royal greeting. He also hadn’t expected to be mocked by the event organizer. Rather than be goaded into a response, he followed Mr. Khan’s blank-faced lead.

The boss stared back and forth between the two before shaking his head. “No need to get in a tizzy. I’ll overlook this emotional outburst since we’ve worked together so long.” The boss nodded toward Cosmo. “But as for this greenhorn, there’s fighting and then there's fighting.”

 Mr. Khan spoke into another extended period of silence with a single word. “Indeed.”

The boss snorted. “So you're telling me this kid knows how to fight. We both know that doesn't mean he can fight, or even that he will fight. Jumping jiminetty, man, all the gods can see he isn’t very big. And you said you wanted to match him up middleweight? What's to say one of those heavy schlubs doesn't just fall on him?”

The boss turned abruptly toward Cosmo. “You gonna break, kid? ‘Cause I don't need some tribal boy coming into my barn just to break. It's bad for business, and I like my business to be good. Not bad. Snails! Aren’t you gonna say something? You understand English don't you? ‘Cause I'm afraid I don't speak Manipuri or whatever crazy dialect your mother tongue may be.”

The man continued to mumble more to himself than to Cosmo. “Great horn spoon if those Naga Hills didn’t end up being a Pandora’s box of epic proportion—”

Having remained quiet as long as he could tolerate, Cosmo cut off the man’s ramblings. “I’ve experienced much worse than fat men falling on me, and I've yet to break.” In a combination of anger and dramatic flare, Cosmo flung off his gi. He turned to reveal the scars criss-crossing his back. The larger ones would be visible even in the dim lighting.

The boss drummed his fingers on his desk. “I see, a real warrior type. Still fighting the good fight and all. Well then,” he scrutinized Cosmo anew, “don’t go killing anybody—at least not on purpose. You stick to that and you’re welcome in my barn, Mr. Cosmo Warrior.”

The boss scratched his chin. “Maybe I'll even heed Mr. Khan’s glowing endorsement and break my own rule by betting on a newbie. Now out with the both of you.”

Cosmo didn’t wait for Khan’s lead this time. Without a word, he turned and left the cramped room. Eyes wide open, he understood the type of performance expected of him. And he understood the type of man who lusted for it.

Perhaps they would snigger at him for maintaining ideals. But Cosmo was above them and their filthy fight club. He would profit them, take his cut, and use the money to graduate from university. It was that simple.